


Child King

by sailorgreywolf



Series: Birth Right [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Brothers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorgreywolf/pseuds/sailorgreywolf





	

Snow was falling in slow scattered flakes as the bright yellow banners of the Holy Roman empire appeared at the gates of Königsberg. Gilbert could just make out the bright color through the flakes. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword, a bastard blade that had ended the life of many men. Those flags had never appeared at his gate, not even when his father was still alive. The proud banners of the empire never came this far into the Eastern frontier. This was one of the farthest outposts of the empire.

It was puzzling. The fanfare seemed far too much for just a messenger, so Gilbert couldn't help but wonder what the reason was behind this strange display. Had his brother finally come to reconcile after so many years of silence? That seemed very unlikely. Maximilian had proved throughly inept so far in his role as empire. Their father may have been a heavy handed tyrant, but he had at least kept order better than this. Under his younger brother, every province of the Holy Roman empire had exercised their own autonomy.

Gilbert did not begrudge it; he had prospered in the absence of a central authority. He did not wield his sword for a distant emperor. He fought for the brothers he had at his side, and they did the same for him. Even now, he knew some of his order were preparing to defend him if this visit should turn hostile. There was comfort in that.

The albino adjusted his cloak against the cold wind which always seemed to blow in off the North Sea. It was not yet high winter, but the weather had taken a frigid turn. If he believed in such things, Gilbert would say that this was a very poor omen. He turned and descended from the ramparts, where he had been watching the imperial procession draw nearer. The wind buffeted his back and he took sure steps down the stone steps. He may as well make his brother feel welcome, even though he doubted this encounter would be pleasant. There had been nothing but silence between them since Germania died.

When he entered the great hall, there was already a large fire filling the space with warmth from the wood floors to the spacious buttressed ceilings. The heavy wood door would keep the howling winds of the North sea out. There would be a comfortable feeling in the hall, at the very least. The cold that surrounded would be kept out. It would only be a matter of time now before he saw his little brother again. This would be the first that they had been face to face since their father's death. Gilbert had spent the time making his mind keener and his sword sharper, one with books the other with blood. But, he had no idea what the young empire had been doing. He was vaguely aware that both Austria and Spain had been exerting influence on him, but it meant very little to Gilbert.

As he contemplated the reason behind this strange turn of events, the albino removed his fox fur lined gloves and placed them on a table. The gloves were the product of his own hand. There was no finery here but what you hunted and sewed yourself. He then untied the cloak at his neck and hung it over the chair at the head of the same table.

As he turned to inquire about how close his brother was, the doors of the citadel swung open, admitting a young man and a small party of retainers. There were only a few armed knights among them, few enough to only be a precaution for the journey. This was a sure sign that he meant this to be a peaceful visit. Gilbert took in the sight of Holy Rome before saying anything. For a young man, he looked surprisingly haggard. His face no longer had the light of exuberent youth. But the child king's clothing was fine. An ermine cloak protected him from the cold and there was gold in the cross he wore around his throat.

Gilbert's own was made of iron, but he had earned it with his own blood. He was an ordaned knight in a monastic order, his brother only had the name "Holy" because it was given to him. As the boy's eyes lighted upon the albino, he cleared his throat and spoke, "Brother, I have come to seek your assistance." His tone was commanding, but his voice was still that of a child. It could not possibly illicit fear from anyone.

Gilbert was struck by how brazen and forced this was. Did he not even deserve a familial greeting? However different their worlds may be, they were still brothers. It would be more fitting to greet him as a brother rather than a vassal. He responded in kind, "What could the mighty Holy Roman Empire need from me? You haven't needed me for hundreds of years." He saw the young man nervously swallow. They were still on opposite sides of the huge table that the order used for strategy, but Gilbert could see every detail of his brother's reaction.  
It was clear that the boy was trying to carry the lofty weight of his own authority, "Surely you have heard of the heresies that are spreading like a plague in my territories. Even in this wilderness you must know about Martin Luther. I wish to uproot this weed, but Saxony will not give him up. As a knight of Christendom, you must assist me."

Holy Rome spoke of duty as though he knew the weight of it. But, he did not. He was young and pampered. He had inherited a title without ever having to work for it. Gilbert knew his duty well, he wore the callouses and scars of it. What could Holy Rome know about defending the Church? He had not fought against the heresies of the patriarch. He had not felt his life slip away under ice only to be delivered by a divine hand.

But, one statement was true: Gilbert had heard of Martin Luther. A copy of the thesis had made it this far East. He had read it personally, and it seemed to him that if the church in Rome was as corrupt as Luther claimed, it deserved to be purged of its debauchery. He had spent his formative years painstakingly copying scripture, and he knew exactly how wrong transgressions were. If priests in Rome were indulging in adultery and pluralism, they deserved to be called out on their debauchery. Gilbert was far removed from Rome, so these allegations were some of the first he had heard. But, Luther didn't seem like he was wrong. His own life was as austere and as reliant on prayer as any Martin Luther advocated. He would not pledge himself or any of his brothers to a campaign he thought unjust.

Gilbert said, "I have heard of Martin Luther. From what I understand, he does not speak against God. He speaks against the practices of corrupt men. Tell me, brother, why I should lift a finger against him?" The boy's blue eyes widened. They were the exact same deep blue as his father. The last time Gilbert had looked in eyes that color, it had been with rage. Holy Rome straightened his spine and pushed his chest out. He looked like a small bird attempting to ruffle his feathers. But, even ruffled, a canary was not an eagle.  
He said, "You have a duty to me as your liege lord."

The albino felt a smile on his own lips. He let his hand casually return to the pommel of his sword. Words he would have held in front of his father spilled freely from his lips, "You speak of duty, but you never seemed to know your own. It was your duty to either summon me to pay homage or to come here to allow me to do so. You did not, so you are not my liege lord."

Holy Rome made a flustered squeak and took a couple steps back, closer to his knights. His hands tightened in the white fur lining of his cloak. All semblance of authority had left his voice as he stumbled over the words, "I-I didn't know." Then, seeming to remember his position, he added, "I will take your oath now and atone for my carelessness." For that single moment, the albino felt regret at his brusqueness. He remembered that they at least shared half of the same blood. But his brother's return to the formality of a lord hardened his own resolve.

He squared his own stance and tightened his hand on the sword. The albino said, "It isn't yours to have anymore. Since you chose to deprive me of my benefice by you, I looked elsewhere. A knight needs a lord, if only in name. I gave my vow of fealty to Felix." The other looked completely flustered. He took a couple more steps backwards in an uneasy retreat towards the doors.  
Holy Rome spoke, placing his own hand at the gilded, gaudy sword at his hip, "You lie! I know you have attacked Poland before."

Gilbert clenched his teeth to stop himself from immediately responding to the incendiary accusation. He was a knight and he lived his life by the code of chivalry and honor. He did not lie on principle. All he had said thus far was true, but so was what his brother had said. Gilbert had turned against his liege lord when he had thought he had to. He said, "Hold your tongue, Holy Rome. I live by my honor while you indulge in your wealth and privilege. You have no right to besmirch my honor. Yes, I have fought with Felix when he did not delivered on what he promised to me as my liege. I require enough land to maintain my order, as any monastic order does. If Felix does not give me that, I chastise him for it. I want no more than what I am owed."

Gilbert could hear his own raised voice echoing off the walls. It's echoes made it into a fearful chorus, accusing Holy Rome with every syllable. He could not remember the last time he had sounded this enraged outside of battle. T His younger brother, who had little right to call himself a lord, was standing before him calling his honor, the only treasure he was allowed, into question.

But, he took a step forward and realized that there was still a quiver in the boy's lower lip. The Holy Roman empire was still a child quaking in his boots at the sight of a a knight with a sword. He had aged since they had last met, but not enough to be a man in his own right. Gilbert had forgotten it when he had been speaking to his brother. He had seen the old resentments and the threat of outside tyranny reflected onto the slight form of his brother, who had not asked for the position he now held. The insults had galvanized him, but he thought it better to give the boy another choice, if only for the sake of their shared blood. Was it not chivalrous to extend a lord's curtesy?

As these thoughts occurred to Gilbert, Holy Rome pulled his cloak tighter around him. He spoke, his voice shaking, "I have come to you to request assistance as is owed to me as an empire. If you will not give it to me, then I will leave." This admission of defeat gave Gilbert a chance to atone for his rudeness. He could not offer his assistance against Martin Luther, on that he was firm, but he could stop his little brother from leaving.  
He spoke, "The storm will only worsen tonight; it is no weather to travel, especially for you. You are soft from your Southern summers. I can give you and your men shelter for the night."

There was a shade of confusion in the other's blue eyes as he heard the words. For a moment, he looked uncertain how to interpret the change of heart. But, the look was soon replaced by one of relief. He responded, "Thank you, brother." He tripped over the familial title, as though this was the first time he had spoken it genuinely and his tongue was unused to it.  
He continued, "I would like to dine with you so that I may attempt to change your mind."

Gilbert anticipated the request, but was uncertain whether he wanted to grant it. He did not want to be pestered about a decision he had already made. But, he had not spoken to his brother in decades, centuries even. This could be a valuable chance to make up the lost time. Perhaps even to mend the rift that their father had cleaved between them. With some reservations, Gilbert replied, "I can grant you that, but do not expect much."

The albino then waved one of the lesser knights that stood around the edge of the hall, beckoning him. The man approached with quiet discipline, saying only, "My lord?" It was only a perfunctory title to explain Gilbert's importance in the order. He had grown used to being called lord, even begun to enjoy it. Without his father's help or backhanded gold, he had achieved status of his own. He may not be an empire like his little brother, but everything he had had been earned.

He answered, "Find rooms for the emperor's envoys. Then inform the Grand Meister that I will not be dining with him tonight. Once you have done that, instruct the kitchens to prepare something rich. I doubt our usual fare will satisfy my brother." The orders rolled off his tongue with a comfortable cadence. Years of learning that deference had no place on the battlefield had made giving orders natural. The boy who waited for his father's permission for every action was gone now. He turned back to Holy Rome, who was looking at him with a strange new respect. Then he said, "Is there anything else you would like to request for the night?" Holy Rome shook his head in resolute silence, understanding at last that he was no longer in his own domain.

There were what seemed to Gilbert to be an inordinate number of candles lit in a spacious room, where food was sprawled across the table. As Gilbert had instructed, the fare was sumptuous. He wondered if the larder had been raided too heavily. There was still winter to be considered and he had hoped to spend it eating more than just course bread and mutton. There was little to be hunted when the darkest winter set in and trade was expensive. Gilbert felt the miserly pang in his gut again as he surveyed the roasted foul, fine bread, and ale.

But, he kept his silence and took a seat on one side of the table. This did nothing to lessen the resentment he felt at the thought of his younger brother. He knew less that this would have drawn judgmental looks. How easy it was for a young man who had known nothing but pampering at the hands of the Hapsburgs to turn his nose up at luxury. Gilbert attempted to restrain the feeling in the name of familial harmony.

He did not touch the food. He would not until his brother joined him. Holy Rome was late and treading dangerously on his brother's curtesy. Perhaps, Gilbert mused, there was more tolerance for tardiness in the Austrian court. He doubted it though. The representation of Austria had seemed to be rather careful for a courtier. They had met years ago when Gilbert had been passing through Hapsburg territory. Roderich had been courteous and careful, even if he was a little odd. There had been word long ago that the boy had grown into a kingdom while Gilbert continued to work for his own survival. It was futile to spend his time thinking of the unfairness of it; there was nothing to change it.

The thought was accompanied with the groan of the hinges. The albino turned his head to look at his brother as the boy walked in. He noted that Holy Rome had changed into another set of clothing, this one even finer than his traveling clothes. Gilbert had only taken off his outer layers. Here there was little utility in Flemish cloth or Neapolitan silk, even if it had been feasible to trade for them. Gilbert had never felt the need for anything different.

As chivalry dictated, Gilbert stood. He did not speak, not quite yet. Holy Rome did not return the favor. He said, "I am grateful for this chance. I hope that I will be able to convince you to aid me." The idea that Holy Rome thought he possessed enough theological knowledge to persuade him was grating. Gilbert sat down wordlessly. He tersely waited for Holy Rome to sit.

The blonde looked over the set table with a distinct sense of disdain. He said only, "Has it been a hard autumn?" Gilbert took the sentence as a veiled insult. Even if it was meant to be simple conversation, it sounded like a judgment on the food.  
Gilbert replied, making little effort to hide his irritation, "No, the yields were good. I'm rather grateful for it."

He watched as darkness seemed to creep over Holy Rome's face. The blonde seemed to be seeking for something else to say. So, Gilbert decided to fill the silence. He said, "We should eat before the food gets cold." Then, without waiting for his brother's reply, he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Usually, he would mutter the words of the prayer under his breath in Latin. But, with his brother so close and, presumably, able to understand Latin, he could not risk it.

He spoke the usual words of gratitude. But he also prayed for the patience to be able to deal with whatever provocation Holy Rome was going to offer him. His nature was forced in battle and was volatile. When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the other was staring at him, the candlelight dancing over his face. The expression was difficult to read until Holy Rome decided to voice the words on the tip of his tongue, "Your life is so pious."

Gilbert could not quite understand the shock he heard in the boy's voice. He was a knight of a Holy Order. Naturally his life was pious, even if that was all it was. He only said, "Did you expect anything different?" He could hear the anger rise in his own voice again. To distract himself, Gilbert reached out and tore a drumstick off of the fowl and then reached for a chunk bread. The physical action of tearing off pieces of meat and bread alleviated his anger for the moment. While he worked, Holy Rome spoke again, "Of course not, your faith is just different than what usually see."

The comment seemed intentionally vague. For a moment, Gilbert wondered what really lay beneath it. His mind turned back to what he had read of Martin Luther. The man claimed that the clergy in Rome was ignorant and corrupt and this slip in his brother's demeanor seemed to indicate that this was the truth. The thought only affirmed Gilbert's decision to keep his knights firmly where they were.

They both lapsed into silence again while the albino tore pieces of meat off of the bone. Holy Rome finally broke the silence again, "Why didn't you stay to mourn our father?" The authority in his voice, or what had been masquerading as authority, disappeared. There was even a quaver of tears. He sounded like a little boy asking for an explanation. Gilbert did not feel particularly ready to explain it to his brother, who had never had a cross word with their father. He said, trying to hide the truth of the last words he had spoken to his father, "To you he was a father and a king. To me he was just a king. It was not my place to stay."

The truth was that he did not want to stay and meet the eyes of his brothers, who saw him as nothing but a demon and a usurper. He did not want to be present to see the man who had stripped him of a title that rightfully belonged to him laid to rest. Holy Rome would not understand the bitterness that Gilbert still felt at the thought of his father. He hoped that the answer would be enough to placate his brother. But, unfortunately, Holy Rome immediately said, "He was your father too. He gave you this."

The boy made a sweeping gesture as though he meant the very ground that they stood on. Gilbert tightened one of his hands into a fist. He had won this land himself; all his father had given him was a small spit of land along the Baltic sea. He did not owe anything to his father. He ate to stop himself from speaking. Hopefully, his brother would take the silence as a sign to change subjects. The boy picked up a piece of bread and looked at it doubtfully. Then, seeming to search for his words, he said, "If I asked you to come back for a more joyous occasion, would you heed me?"

The question seemed odd and Gilbert was at a loss to respond. He responded, not thinking of the motivation behind the question, "I would. But that is not what we are discussing." They were the only words he could muster. Was there a pertinent reason Holy Rome was asking? There was no joy in speaking of Martin Luther for either of them.

Gilbert was not left in suspense for long. The blonde smiled for the first time since he had arrived. Dimples appeared in his round cheeks. He said, "I am planning to ask a lady for her hand in marriage. I know we haven't been close, but I want my entire family to be there." He stopped speaking for only a moment before continuing with an even wider smile, "Please say you'll be there."

The boy was glowing from the excitement radiating from him. Gilbert felt a strange disconnection from it. He had never thought of marriage. His own position required a vow of chastity, but he had never thought of breaking it. His brother's excitement belonged in some distant, glittering world that Gilbert was not privy to. It was like placing ones hand over a candle but not feeling the warmth. He asked, because it was the only polite question that occurred to him, "Who is your intended?"

He doubted the answer would mean anything to him, but it seemed correct to ask. As he expected, a blush mounted his brother's cheeks and the boy quickly said, "She's the granddaughter of Rome. Can you imagine it? The wounds between our families finally healed."

Suddenly, Gilbert understood. This wasn't about marriage at all; it was about intimidation. If Holy Rome was able to marry an heir to the remainder of the Roman empire, he would have claim to almost all of Europe. He would have the power to command vast armies. With the Spanish emperor he currently had and that kind of land, there was no possibility of resisting him.

Gilbert clenched his jaw. Why had he thought that his brother actually wanted to speak about anything else? This was ambition hidden in the empty news of frivolity. He replied, "If you really cared about healing wounds, you would not have come to me to demand compliance. You are no less a tyrant than our father. Marry your Roman bride. Take your Spanish army to Saxony. Take whatever foreign help you need to turn against your own kin. I will take no part in it."

Holy Rome went pale. He said, his voice breaking as it crescendoed, "I didn't ask for this! I want to live with all of you, but no one will listen to me! I hoped that you would help me because we are brothers. Why do you treat me like an enemy?" Gilbert pushed himself away from the table and stood. He would take no more of this. He had made his stance clear enough. His own anger was reaching a boil and threatening to spill over.

He said, avoiding his brother's question, "You have never treated me as a brother." He was not the one who had chosen to keep silence over the years. He wanted to walk out of the room, to leave Holy Rome standing there. But, he did not move. Leaving felt too much like surrender. Holy Rome stood as well, but he did not have the same confidence. Holy Rome raised his voice, "I am still your lord! I deserve your loyalty! If you deny me, I will turn on you once I deal with Saxony."

The threat hung in the air, empty and desperate. But, it showed his resolve. He had, as Gilbert had suspected, never cared to fix the family. He was another tyrant not yet strong enough to enforce his will. The albino's temper broke free from its restraints. He snapped, "You don't deserve anything! I am your older brother and I should wear your crown."  
The blonde slowly shook his head and said, "Our father did this to both of us. It was up to us to fix it. The next time we meet, I will be a conquerer putting you in your place. I hope you look back on this as the moment you failed to do what you should have as my brother." He then walked out, letting the door close lightly behind him.

Gilbert felt his absence like an unspoken reproach in the air. He had won his neutrality, but it was hollow. He was not scared of the threats. No matter what he said, Holy Rome could not afford to risk a war with Poland over land that had little worth. But as he sat and stared at the, practically untouched, food, he felt as though he had lost something.


End file.
